I am 69 years old and its been six months since my wife passed away. We had been together for forty-two yearsno children, just us and our life, our routines and our little pleasures.
It started as something ordinary, reallya bit of tiredness, aches that came and went, appointments that hardly seemed a priority. Then, suddenly, there were tests, hospitals, treatments. I was by her side every step she took.
I learned her medication schedule by heart. I made note of the foods she could no longer eat. I got to recognise that look in her eyes when the pain flared and sleep escaped her. Those nights, I just sat up beside her, holding her hand, knowing sometimes the only thing you can do is simply be there.
Id rise before her in the mornings just to make her tea and toast. Helped her in the bath when she hadnt the strength. I chatted about trivial things to keep her mind distracted, but there were moments when she couldnt answernot that she didnt want to, but her body was finally giving in.
When she slipped away, she was lying in bed, holding my hand. There were no dramatic words, no final sceneshe just stopped. One moment present, the next, gone.
I rang 999, though I knew it was too late.
Her funeral felt surreal. People turned up whom I hadnt seen in years. They offered the standard words: She was a good woman, At least she’s at peace now, You must stay strong. I would nod along, unsure quite what I was nodding at.
Then, everyone left, and the house became enormousnot by size but by emptiness. It was as if life had drained right out of it.
The nights are always the worst. I go to bed early because I cant face the silence. We used to watch the news togethershed always make a comment, find something to laugh at, ask if I fancied a cuppa. Now I leave the television on for the sound of voices, if only to fill the void.
We had no childrenno one to phone, no grandchildren to visit. Theres no one to tell when my back aches, when the GP changes my tablets, or when I feel faint and wish someone could fetch me a glass of water.
Sundays weigh heaviest. We used to stroll through the park, buy a loaf of bread, take our time on the way back as if life would last forever. She always walked slower and Id joke she was being stubbornshed laugh every time.
Now I walk alone. People either look at me with pity or not at all. In the shop, I buy just enough to get bycant really think why to cook anything special anymore.
I go days without saying a word to another soul. Whole days. Sometimes I surprise myself when a neighbour says hello, my own voice sounds so unused.
I dont regret we never had children, but only now do I truly understand the meaning of growing old on your own. Everything is slower, heavier, quieter. No one waiting for you. No one to ask if you got home safely. No one concerned whether youve taken your pills.
Im still here because well, what else can I do? I get up, I do whats needed, and go to bed again. Im not after sympathy. Its not pity I want.
I just needed to say it aloud: when you lose the person you shared your life with, youre left somewhere where nothing else quite matters anymore.
If Ive learned anything, its that love leaves a hollowone that cannot be filled, but perhaps, with time, can be carried.
